


Worst Idea Ever

by Dyzzyah



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Don't try this at home wait until you get in the car
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-25
Updated: 2011-12-25
Packaged: 2017-10-28 03:20:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/303167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dyzzyah/pseuds/Dyzzyah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Karkat is in a runaway shopping cart rolling down hill, swearing to kill Gamzee for getting him into this mess.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Worst Idea Ever

**Author's Note:**

> I had a bad idea, so I wrote it. Enjoy!

If you ever survive this, you are going to cull Gamzee. Then you will probably cull yourself, because you are clearly too stupid to live. How the fuck did you even let him talk you into this? Goddamned shitty clown. ‘HeY bRo, ThIs Is GoNnA bE tHe MoThErFuCkIn’ BiTcHtItS.’ What does that even fucking mean? And how did these supposed tits-of-bitches result in you, an otherwise sane and rational troll, apparently the last one in the whole fucking universe who could claim to both sanity and rationality, sitting in a rickety shopping cart, staring down the hillside and your impending doom? If this is what he considers miracles, you want none of them.

And yet, here you are.

The most baffling thing, perhaps, is that you got in the cart of your own volition, so you guess maybe you can no longer tout yourself as either sane or rational. The universe, now having lost both precious commodities, is no longer a place fit to live in, so perhaps it’s for the best that your inevitable death waits for you somewhere along this slope. You find it ironic that this ultimate low point in your life is at the top of a hill. This strangely tall hill. Deceptively tall, even. Fuck, it hadn’t nearly looked this high up from the bottom. Or this rocky. And that tree-lined path that would in all likelihood be your last and final journey looked a lot wider and less tree-y. On further consideration, this is no hill, but a mountain; an angry rocky duplicitous mountain, merely posing as a hill, that thirsts for blood, and you have been made an unwitting sacrifice. Your best friend is sacrificing you to the mountain god, and that idiot clown probably isn’t even getting a bargain. Probably selling you for a new horn or some more fucking spotted pants or something equally moronic. Asshole never did learn to haggle, even if it is probably a seller’s market for blood sacrifices.

So, as you said, here you are. You’re in the shopping cart, staring down the ledge, a few feet away, as your Troll Brutus catches his breath while he rummages in his pack for something. He had wheeled you all the way up here, and he seems a little tired. Good. Serves the bastard right. Why are you even still in the cart? This is stupid, stupid enough you don’t even have a word for it, and you try to clamber out, but moving inches the cart closer to the ledge, and you stop, stock still, afraid to breathe, but still more than capable of shivering in apoplectic rage.

You have just become an atheist, because there can be no just or loving god that would allow you, or ‘BeSt FrIeNd,’ to be this insufferably idiotic. You try to think of a way to escape the deathcart without triggering a preemptive downwards physics lesson, when you notice Makara has found whatever the fuck he was looking for, and thrust it into your hands.

“YoU’rE gOnNa NeEd ThIs, BrO.”

Oh, thank God-who-might-still-exist, Gamzee brought some kind of protective device. Your eyes nearly tear up as you look into your hands to see what your saving grace might be. A helmet? Knee pads? A spare think pan, to replace the one you apparently don’t have, because you even let yourself get into this mess?

…A video recorder?

What.

Also, why do you feel like you’re moving?

Troll Brutus has been upgraded to Troll Judas; even if God exists, he is dead to you; and your pet idiot is wheeling you right up to the edge, grinning a grin that wouldn’t fit on a fucking choir of idiots. Do idiots come in choirs? Or is there some other collective noun for them? Maybe it’s like carrionkind featherbeasts, a murder of idiots, which would be the most fucking fitting thing in the cosmos, because not only what he is clearly attempting to do to you, but if you survive, that is what you will do to him. He reaches over, hits a button on the video recorder, and he fucking. KICKS. The cart.

Your rickety deathtrap rattles down the path, gaining momentum, bumping over rocks and gravel and branches, and you don’t think you’re saying anything, but there’s a “FUCK FUCK FUCK FUUUUUCK” in the air that sounds a lot like you, and if it’s not you then damn, that’s a good impersonation, and this all feels a lot slower than it should be, even though the speed of the cart registers with you, so maybe your thoughts are racing? Maybe this is some kind of automatic response before death, giving those who are about to die time to reflect on their life choices, but you’re in a fucking shopping cart rolling down hill, and you’re pretty sure that you don’t want to think about your life choices right now, although you’re about a third of the way down the hill now and the “FUCK FUCK FUCK FUUUUUCK” voice suddenly says “OH MY FUCKING GOD THIS IS AWESOME” and that surprises the fuck out of you, although if you think about it you kind of sort of agree, and it’s kind of funny that you feel really alive right now, just before you die, but this is getting to almost be fun and maybe if you’re really lucky you’ll survive this, since the first third, no half now, of the trip hasn’t killed you yet so maybe this won’t be as bad as you think, and wait a second, waiiit…FUCK IS THAT A RAMP?

The cart hits the ramp and you feel unexpectedly avian. Huh. So this is what flight is like. Maybe Tavros has something there, with his constant obsession with flight. You’re a little surprised how dispassionate you are, even if the voice you hear is screaming “HOLY FUCKING TROLLCHRIST I’M FLYIN—OOF!”

The bush is actually delightfully soft, for a bush. You’re kind of scratched up a little, though you don’t think any skin is broken, and you can feel the bruises that future-you is going to have within the next day or so, all over your back and legs, but that’s not really at the forefront of your mind right now. Maybe it’s the adrenaline, that numbs present-you’s pain. Adrenaline is a good thing. Future you is going to want to kick current you’s ass, though. Your knuckles are still white, gripping the video recorder, and you can hear your best friend’s raspy laughter from the top of the hill. Your traitorous impersonator is screaming again, and even though you can feel the muscles of your mouth moving and forming the words, you’re still surprised by what they actually say.

“GET YOUR ASS DOWN HERE GAMZEE I WANNA GO AGAIN.”


End file.
